


the man i knew

by graywhatsit



Category: A Heist With Markiplier, Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, DA remembers everything, Gen, Not Really A Happy Ending, POV Second Person, conflicted feelings, essentially a breakup, gender neutral da, time loops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: The DA remembers everything that happened, even after they escape the mirror and join Mark.They especially remember what Damien and Celine did to them.
Relationships: Damien | The Mayor & Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?), Mark Fischbach & Y/N | The District Attorney
Comments: 2
Kudos: 61





	the man i knew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dcat/gifts).



> title is from the song of the same name by dessa
> 
> find me @fgfluidity on tumblr

It’s—

It’s him. And her. A pair trapped in a shell that they _took_ from you.

You aren’t stupid. You never have been.

Maybe naive, to trust them to save you, bring you back.

You trusted Damien with your entire being, and he trusted Celine, so you had to. Damien looked at you the same way he always did, if edged with grief, and _promised_.

He’d never broken a promise to you before.

Then, on the other side of the glass, his face twisted into a dark and hateful glare as you pounded your fists and screamed. Screamed for them to come back and help you, because you couldn’t feel your body but you couldn’t really _feel._

You weren’t sure just how long you held out in there until you gave up the ghost, so to speak. All you had was time and your thoughts to stew in, and you stewed.

You cycled in that seemingly-infinite stretch of time, from rage to despair to excuses to nothingness, over and over, hopping from one to the next as your thoughts did, chewing it over.

Mark was right. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that you got roped into this party when you only really knew Damien. It wasn’t fair that you were forced into being that cursed detective’s partner. It wasn’t fair that, in trying to stop a man mad with grief and rage, you just became another victim.

It wasn’t fair that you died. It wasn’t fair that your body was stolen. It wasn’t fair that you were trapped, unable to do anything but _think_.

You already had a tendency for overthinking, and the isolation only made it worse.

Sometimes, you hated them. Hot, seething, boiling rage in your stomach for all that you lost, because you were trusting for once in your life. It kept you warm in the cold, dead world on the other side of the mirror.

So did your tears, when you decided you didn’t hate them. When you found them to just be more victims of a cruel twist of fate, like you were. When you remembered Damien’s kind face and couldn’t possibly bring yourself to be upset, because how could he have known?

He trusted his sister, who just might have believed she could do it, too. That she could restore you all and fix things.

There was something else, on those days. Celine and Damien wouldn’t kick you out— it had to be some other thing. The thing causing all of what happened in that manor. The thing that warped Mark’s body and everyone’s minds and was what snarled at you while you pleaded for help.

Honestly, you never could decide if it existed or not. Your two frames of mind wouldn’t allow for much compromise on such a thing.

Eventually, you grew tired of waiting and thinking. The world outside was dusty and rotten and old, and you were so exhausted of it.

You shattered it, through time and effort, and then—

Things were very strange for a while.

You floated, half-conscious, for what felt like an eternity. You knew time passed, though— even if you weren’t sure how much— because strange and new images drifted into your mind, words and phrases and places you didn’t know: a screen of glass in a palm, a typewriter without ink, moving pictures in color and sound on demand comparable to real life. You found out their names later— mobile phone, computer, television and web video, and isn’t the internet exciting?— but even knowing didn’t detract from the fascination and novelty of it.

Through that, you found Mark, and it all melded back together.

You had lived an entire life, and another, and remembered both. It wasn’t comfortable, especially with contradictions, but...

You felt alive again, and the discomfort ebbed with time.

You didn’t know Mark beforehand, but if this was how he was, before everything... you could see why they were all such good friends.

He was kind to you. Invited you on adventures, asked for your input. He was funny, and charming. He was a good man, if arrogant and a bit obnoxious.

Maybe time had changed him, because he didn’t seem the type to steal a body or craft an elaborate revenge. You didn’t think he had it in him anymore.

He invited you on a heist, and while you were a bastion of justice in your past life— still had a strong sense of it, though you weren’t a lawyer anymore— you agreed. Why not? You didn’t really care for museums hoarding artifacts, anyway.

And he didn’t like when you said no. Not- not _angrily_ , but the man would whine and pout like an absolute child, and some days you had little patience for that.

(How did he know which days were the right days to push? You didn’t and still don’t know.)

So, you drafted up a plan, got your materials, and awaited the right day.

Something happened with the box. Time bent and warped around you, like your brief brush with clairvoyance nearly a century ago. If something happened, you ended up right at the start, in front of the museum, hours reversed on your watch.

It was a little disorienting, but you had two lifetimes of memories already floating around in your head, not including all that time in the mirror. What were a few more?

The bastard really, really wanted to split up, and you’d already seen what awaited you down that tunnel: death or his obnoxious whining. You’d rather pass on both, had you the option, and you did.

“Good luck,” you called, turning away from him. The tunnel you came down seemed even more ominous, but you were made of sterner stuff than to be cowed into either other ending. “Meet back in five, like you said?”

“Of course!” He sounded far too happy to finally be splitting up. You didn’t know why. “No matter what happens! You go down that tunnel, I’ll go down this tunnel, and if you see anything— and I mean anything— out of the ordinary, you just turn that sweet little tuchus around and—“

One thing you didn’t care for: his flirtations. Whether or not he meant it, it still felt... uncomfortable. Wrong. Predatory.

It always did.

You paused a few steps away at the sound of a clatter, and you found his flashlight, still on, still on the ground, when you turn around— without Mark anywhere nearby.

“Mark?” Stepping lightly, because you didn’t want to alert anyone or anything to your presence, you crossed to peer down the single-occupancy tunnel. Nothing. Feeling peculiar, you said, “If you’re behind me, waiting to scare me, I’m going to break your nose. Again.”

The first time was (mostly) an accident. You get jumpy around guns. Even fake ones not held directly at you.

You turned around and—

The world looked different. Your head spun as you stumbled down the new hallway, one that wasn’t and couldn’t be there before. The single-occupancy tunnel behind you was completely gone— it was like you were somewhere else.

And what a somewhere else.

Your gut churned with every step you took, portraits of people long-since dead on the walls, memories of their voices echoing in your ears.

It hurt. Not physically, but in the way grief hurt, the way your years of solitude in the mirror did. Thoughts and memories, sharper than daggers, more painful than the gunshot and the fall could ever have hoped to be.

Your phone rumbled in your pocket, messages that somehow made the hurt worse from a number deliberately obscured.

A portrait of the chef. The butler. The detective. The Colonel— your gut seared in burning pain.

Mark, the first time you met him. Almost instantly, it began to decay before your eyes— rot from within, blackening the eyes, widening the smile, until chips of paint rolled down and clattered on the floor.

“Same snake, different skin.”

And you turned again, back to where that hallway should be, but there was just a void.

And a man.

And here you are now, face to face with a person you haven’t seen in decades, and you have no idea what to say.

You let him speak as you gather your thoughts. It’s Damien. Or- or Celine. Or the thing that pushed you out. You didn’t know if he might still be alive, but— well, isn’t Mark? Aren’t you?

Things that go inside that manor aren’t the same ever again, and that’s quite clear, now.

You could say a lot to him. You could take all of those years of rumination and unload it at once, maybe try to find some peace, but...

You don’t know if you want to scream or cry. You don’t know if it was purposeful or an accident.

You perfected your ultimate angry speech years ago, the right amount of cutting, the hurt you suffered.

You imagined what it might be like to hold your friend close once more and say you forgive him— a different kind of speech.

Which one is right to use?

All you know is shock.

“You aren’t even listening, are you?”

You snap back to attention. He’s watching you, dark eyes slightly narrowed in an otherwise-impassive expression, hands clasped behind his back.

“Am I not entertaining enough for you?” His voice remains cool, smooth. “I apologize— I forgot you’re used to dealing with a _clown_.”

He sneers at that, a little curl of his lip, and in the echo of his voice, a visual echo appears in the void behind him— himself, cast red.

“Don’t expect me to follow in his footsteps. We can speak like civil people, can’t we? I wouldn’t insult your intelligence, as he does— though your judgement could use work.” He gestures to a desk with two chairs that wasn’t there seconds prior. “Shall we?”

You finally find your words. “You want me to sit and talk with you?”

“If you’d oblige me.” He’s sitting in the chair, already, but he didn’t move. The hair on the back of your neck stands up. “It’s been some time without decent conversation.”

“No, no.” You shake your head. “You want me to sit and talk with _you_ ? _You_ , of all people. You want me to sit down and have a nice little chat about... _anything_ ? With _you_?”

He considers you a moment, and you just catch his eyes widen in realization. It would make no difference if you weren’t looking for it. “You remember me,” he murmurs.

“You think I wouldn’t?” You step closer to the desk, but you don’t take the offered seat. “After what happened?”

“I hadn’t dared to hope,” he admits, and that phrase sends you reeling again.

You grip the back of the chair to keep your balance. It’s solid wood and soft stuffing, and though it’s neither warm nor cool, it’s just grounding, enough. “What?”

“I thought he might have had you in his coils. That he might have cleared your memories, somehow.” He leans back a bit, some light in his dark eyes that feels off. Wrong. “It’d serve his game better, and he loves a good game.”

“Who?” You frown, thinking. “Mark?”

“ _Yes_ , Mark,” he growls. “What do you think your heist is? Why do you think things keep starting over? Why, when he disappears, does someone show up looking just like _him_?”

He splinters into fragments as he speaks, echoes of himself in blue and red flashing in your vision, his voice and static ringing in your ears in a near-painful whine. 

“Like you do?” you ask, bolder than you likely should be. Under stress, and with all these loops, your sense of self-preservation falls to the wayside in favor of sass.

“ _He_ looks like _me!_ ” The shout rings louder, crossing the threshold into pain, and you reach up to cover your ears. “You remember me, yet you forget what he’s done to us. He stole my body to parade around in!”

Like that, it’s decided for you. Still protecting your ears from the onslaught, you glare at him, teeth bared. “I really wonder what that’s like, _old friend._ Does your neck still hurt? How about the bullet in your stomach?”

It doesn’t seem to have the effect you hoped it would. While the fragments cease and the ringing abates enough for you to hesitantly uncover your ears, he doesn’t jerk back in pain, doesn’t look remotely guilty.

But...

But his features soften, just a little, just enough to almost look like the Damien you know. “You know I didn’t aim to deceive you.”

“Do I know that?” Figuring your eardrums are safe enough, you cross your arms. “Because I _knew_ that I trusted you with everything I had, and that it was well placed. I _knew_ you would keep me safe because you always did, from university to the world of politics. Imagine my fucking surprise when you failed me on both accounts.”

“There were extenuating circumstances. Mark needed to be brought down, and one body can’t hold many entities.” He rolls his neck, and you wince at the creaking. “Even this many, and I’m... unstable. Clearly.”

“Clearly,” you echo, dryly. “And I was the one to go, huh? How’d you figure that one? Did we draw straws and I just didn’t know about it?”

“You were a wrench in the plan.” He appears beside the desk, taking a careful step closer. You take one back. “You were always righteous. You weren’t so betrayed as I was. You’re a conscience.”

If that’s supposed to be a compliment, it doesn’t land. “Having morals is a bad thing?”

He takes another step; again, you match it. “When it gets in the way.” He looks you up and down, considering— not leering, like you’ve caught from Mark, but more like an interesting specimen under a microscope. “You don’t have to be in the way, though. You could help.”

“Help?” You laugh. It’s a bit too strained, hysterical, to count as mirth. “Help you kill my friend? No.”

Something flickers in his eyes, in the void, and you take another step back without prompting. “Your friend, is he? That snake who insults you at every turn? The man so desperate to get away from you that he’ll take certain death to do it? The man who hurts you and puts you in danger and blames you when things go wrong, even if it’s his own fault? That’s your friend?”

The fragments shade blue this time.

“I—“ _Yes, of course he is._ That’s what you want to say. That’s what you mean, because he is. He’s a good friend. He’s been good to you.

He always has prop guns around the house. You told him you don’t like them, but they’re always in sight.

You’ve been hit apropos of nothing, save his mood. He says it’s a bit, but you don’t think a bit stings as bad as that.

He’s heavily doubted your decisions. He shoved you into the open so he could hide.

He tried everything he could to get away from you, getting angry when you took every lesson a story ever gave you and stuck with him.

Is he your friend?

He let you make the plan, and follows your decisions, even if he questions them.

In another loop, he stood between you and a madman, fists raised.

He thanks you sincerely, warmly, for coming along with him every time you do.

Is he not your friend?

You shake your head. Something isn’t right— things feel too jumbled, even for your mind. “He’s been— no, I’m not helping you. He’s different than that now. He’s good to me, whatever you’re saying, and I’m not helping you.”

His face grows stony. “So it isn’t just the righteousness. He has you under his thumb. You _believe_ him.”

You bristle. “I am under _no one’s_ —“

“He keeps you from me, and turns you against anyone who might show you the truth.” He paces away from you, but it’s no time to relax; the void matches his mood, swirling and flashing in static and color. “He lies to you, misguides you, cheats you, hurts you, and you apologize to and for _him_. You’re a mouse in a snake’s coils and you don’t even know.

“No, worse.” He glances back at you. “You don’t even _care_.”

Of all the accusations! Disregarding your self-preservation once again, you stalk forward. “The choice you’re giving me is a man who put me in a prison for nearly a century, or a man who regularly manipulates me. That’s not much of a _choice_ ,” you spit. “Besides, if you’re right, at least the snake _pretends_ to care. You won’t even do that.”

Out of all things you’ve said, that’s what gets the biggest reaction. His face actually falls— nothing big, but certainly noticeable— into something close to hurt, disbelief, sorrow. “You think I don’t care about you?”

“No. I _know_ you don’t.”

It hurts to say. There’s a painful lump in your throat and your eyes burn, hot prickling in your skin that prefaces tears, because you know Damien _did_ , and deeply.

The manor changes people. The mirror does. Grief and betrayal and pain do.

You aren’t the DA anymore, and he isn’t Damien, or Celine.

You’re different and unfamiliar as strangers, whatever you had before.

“Send me back. Go ahead.” You clench your jaw, rub a cheek on your sleeve. You don’t care if it’s wet or not. “I promise, I won’t come back.”

You think he looks heartbroken for a moment, flickers of blue at your tears, but he regains his countenance, calm and collected gray static, in a moment. “We aren’t done,” he warns, smoothly. “When he slips up, when he finally gets rid of you—“

“Then, I guess he does. Too bad.” You swallow hard and prepare your words. “Don’t ever talk to me again.”

In a heartbeat— less— you see the front of the museum.

“Hey!”

You turn to find Mark, jogging up to you. Well, half sneaking, half jogging— it’s a weird, awkward motion that doesn’t really work.

“What are you doing down here?” He stage-whispers. “You’re already supposed to be... are you okay?”

“Huh?” You blink, and find that your lashes are still wet. Quickly, you lift a gloved hand to wipe at them. “Oh, yeah, I just—“

A hand grips your shoulder. Mark’s. “Listen,” he says, softly. “I don’t know what’s going on with you right now, but if— and I know, I get it, we worked so hard and planned and junk, but— if we need to just put it off, we can.”

“That’s not like you, Mr. Why Can’t We Do It Now.”

He shrugs, averting his eyes. “Yeah, well. You’re upset, and we shouldn’t do a heist if you’re upset. We can go back to base and... I don’t know. Do something else.”

Briefly, his hand squeezes, thumb sliding over the front of your shoulder comfortingly.

He might be lying. This might be one long game, something to stoke his ego and manipulate you, but it’s a touch, warm and firm and right there on your shoulder.

Even if Damien— the man who _was_ Damien— is right, and he’s only here to ultimately use you, it’s _something_.

“I appreciate it,” you say, with a smile. “But we worked way too hard to back out now. Come on, let’s get that artifact— _then_ we can go and do something else.”

You’d rather have something than nothing, ever again.


End file.
